


Regret

by withoutwingsx



Series: Victuuri Prompts [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Breakup, Depression, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Phichit is an angel, References to Depression, VictUuri, ex boyfriends, prompt, yuri is a baller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwingsx/pseuds/withoutwingsx
Summary: There is a fog behind his eyes and does anything even matter? Day 2- Prompt: "someone you used to love" ex-boyfriends AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2- prompt “write about someone you used to love” interpreted as- Ex boyfriends AU  
> Please check the tags carefully if you have any sensitivities.

There is a hole is his heart that he can’t seem to fill. It’s in the nights where he lies awake and stares at the ceiling, and when he closes his eyes he feels as though he’s falling, sinking, drowning, but sleep refuses to come.

It’s in the way his coffee machine beeps, the sugar he pours in his second cup, the empty pantry and sparse fridge.

It’s in the way he walks to class, his eyes bleary and his back hunched, his steps heavy and his lips quirked in a frown.

It’s the dark circles, the seat in the back of the class, close to the door, close to escape if needed. The way the fluorescent lights feel as though they grow dimmer with each breath he takes, and the door closing behind him as he flees into the hallway and into the bathroom, splashing water on his face and breathing heavily in his hands.

The panic that seems to come, his lungs growing tight and his breathing labored, his hands and feet begin to tingle and numb, he feels as though his heart is racing too fast and may explode from his chest. 

But it’s only when he’s reminded, that the fear and adrenaline begins, like a cliff in which he walked too close to the edge, and now he’s falling and falling.

 

It’s in the classes he skips, the fear he feels when he tries to leave his small room, the way he lies in bed and stares at nothing for hours on end. It’s the showers that he forgets, the meals he can’t bother to eat, the medicine he doesn’t take, it’s the fact that life seems pointless, as if time is racing but he is stuck at a standstill.

 

His eyes are a sunken mural of violet circles and blue veins, his body is an ever changing breeze, growing smaller and weaken with each passing day. His phone is a mess of missed calls and texts, worried messages and pictures replied only with ‘I’m fine’ and ‘just tired’ and ‘it's nothing’.

He doesn’t need to talk about it, he needs to forget the pain that sits in the pit of his stomach and won’t go away and has no reason to exist, kind of like him. 

Sometimes being locked away from the world isn’t enough to curb the panic. It rises like the ocean during a storm, a kaleidoscope of roaring waves that collide as if at war with each other. It’s crying and shaking and feeling as though this is the time, that it isn’t just his anxiety. This time he’s dying. This time he’s truly sick.

But it passes, as all storms tend to do, and fades to the back of his mind but it always lurks, storm clouds on the horizon. Always present, just like the thoughts, the memories he can’t bear to even think about, locked away in a box and pushed behind everything he regrets.

Days and nights pass as if an endless loop, and sometimes he can’t tell if he’s merely repeating the same day over and over or if this is just a dream he can’t wake from.

Survival is a language spoken by granola bars and empty eyes, books abandoned after the first chapter and blinds tightly closed.

Is it any surprise that one day, the cycle must be broken.

There is a noise, a pounding, but he can’t tell if it exists or if it's merely in his head.

The sound of his door lock clicking seems to tell him that it’s not merely his imagination, yet he feels no need to get up and see what this means. His bed is a black hole and he is trapped, secured and unable to escape.

The door creaks open, and the brightness is blinding, but a familiar face that seems to spur something appears, but he doesn’t care to follow that train of thought.

It’s only later, that he’s surrounded by murmuring words and bright lights, that he seems to remember something but it’s too hazy to even try, and he would rather just forget.

 

He remembers when the sun streams in, and he sees the colors on the walls. 

“Phichit?” His voice sounds as though he hasn’t used it for an eternity, but the boy who reacts, grabs his hands and looks relieved.

“Yuuri.”

 

The doctors, or counselors, whatever they call themselves, bring him food and medication, and soon Yuuri feels as though the fog has lifted and he is no longer trapped in the world between dreaming and waking.

It had been two weeks that Phichit hadn’t heard from him, and he came to investigate, and found Yuuri dirty and exhausted, unresponsive, in his bed. The doctors said it was withdrawal from his anxiety medication and antidepressant, probably due to his reaction to a serious life event.

Yuuri knows the answer why, but both he and Phichit dance around the subject like it’s a hole in a ballet floor.

 

He moves into Phichit's apartment two weeks later. He doesn’t return to school quite yet, but instead, he stays in the flat and spends the days taking his medication on time, and studying on what he missed. He’s not ready to venture into the real world, but he is ready to live again.

 

His first excursion is filled with shallow breathing and a white-knuckled grip on Phichit's arm as they wait for their coffee orders to be filled. Everything is too bright and too loud but Yuuri forces himself to stand, reminding his body to breath and to stay, don’t run, you can do this.

Phichit's smile and warm grip help, but a flash of silver hair has Yuuri’s body numb and his mind filled with dread and the parking lot asphalt is warm when he rests his head against it, after being sick in the bushes next to the curb. He can’t quite breath, but he’s away from whatever he saw, and at least now he’s safe.

 

Sometimes relationships start out as great. Two people, infatuated, obsessed with each other, almost in love, easily could fall. It’s filled with cliche dates, walks across parks, and calls in the evening.

Soon it’s sweet kisses, and making love with rose petals, washing each others hair, exploring every inch of the person you are falling in love with. 

Perhaps nothing bad occurs. You continue on, but the calls become less, you are both busy, and it's rare that you see him more than once a week. Soon, when he texts, most of the time you don’t reply, because what's the point. 

Life becomes hectic, school becomes harder, bills are due and you have little time, for love.

As the weight of the world begins to weigh on your shoulders he is but a small memory in the back of your mind, and you can’t click on his name even to clear the number from the message icon, because then you’ll have to respond.

Love is just another chore to spend time on, and you have no time to spend.

It’s over coffee that he frowns and he says that he wants to end it, and while something inside hurts, it doesn’t hurt too much, and you understand.

You’re both busy, and you ignore the dark circles under his eyes, the ways his lips quiver when he tries to explain, and the way he sighs sadly when you agree to end things.

You thought you ignored the looks he shot over his shoulder as he walked away, and the missed call you never bothered to return days later.

But now that the darkness has faded from your brain, it seems as though you couldn’t ignore those things.

And now it’s the guilt that begins to weigh in. 

Because while depression is painful for you, the one who has it, it also hurts those who care for you.

And it seems as though it wasn’t just to you, that damage was done.

 

Time still passes regardless of his turmoil, and he convinces himself that it’s too late for apologies, too late to try to bring back up any damage done. 

But it’s now that he remembers blue eyes, laughter, whispered words. He remembers candles and bubbles and soft silk sheets, early mornings and skipping class for warm arms and closed blinds.

He remembers when it began to change, when he began to ignore the calls and not reply to the messages. He remembers rare outings, but yet he was still met with gentle kisses and relief and infatuated blue eyes. 

He remembers voicemails, he remembers ‘I miss you’ and soft sobs, and he remembers deleting them without even a second thought.

What he can’t remember is why, why he didn’t bother to send back one word, or to call, but depression is a parasite that destroys its host, and in this case, it was not just him it seems it destroyed.

But it’s too late, it's been months, and while he wants to apologize and explain, he knows that it's better to leave it be. For both their sakes.

 

Phichit is sitting next to him, both their noses in their textbooks, when suddenly a bright blinding pain flashes across his cheek and he looks up to see blonde hair and furious eyes, until he’s slapped again.

The boy is grabbed, Phichit holding the small figure back, but Yuuri knows that face, and it sends a person he’d rather forget to mind.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” The boy spits, but Yuuri is calm, and stares back. “You fucking enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

Phichit is confused but Yuuri is not, but he is frozen and cannot respond. 

“Congratulations. You destroyed him. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

He watches blonde hair fade into the distance, and he feels again as if there is no oxygen in the air.

His lungs are on fire and the panic is back and Phichit follows him as he sprints out of the building and towards anywhere.

His head is between his knees and he decides and he knows he’ll regret it but the guilt feels worse, maybe, than the depression and the panic.

 

It’s the same shop, and the same eyes but a gaze he has never been on the receiving end of. It’s hurt and it’s cold and it's more than he deserves, more than he could have hoped for.

“Thank you for meeting me.” His voice is timid and his hands are shaking and Victor is just sitting there with his arms crossed and Yuuri wants to run, but he owes him this much.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri can’t breathe but it’s okay and he pinches himself under the table to try to stay sane and not run. “I owe you an explanation.” His words feel like blood oozing from a cut, but the pain in his chest deflates just enough. “I don’t want you to forgive me, but you deserve this much.”

The words feel like nails pulled out of his skin, relief from constant pain, but it hurts as they are yanked from his body.

Victor listens to the river that flows from his mouth, and he tries to explain, he tries to paint a picture of what happened and why for closure, not for Yuuri, but for the man before him. 

Victor’s eyes shine with an emotion, one Yuuri can only describe as hope, but he knows it's probably his wishful mind.

Because underneath the pain and the fog, he loves Victor, and he let him slip from his grasp, he let the illness win, and he doesn’t deserve any affection but he can’t help but hope, as foolish as it is. 

Victor sighs, Yuuri is done, and his hands are shaking but he feels calmer now. The guilt is still there, but now he feels better, not for himself but for Victor.

He expects him to stand up and leave, or perhaps anger, or even just cold hatred, but Victor loves to surprise and the tears that spill from his eyes make Yuuri more confused than ever.

For the one he loved, and perhap still loves, demands that Yuuri make it up.

This time with honesty, this time Yuuri is upfront about his depression and anxiety and panic disorder, and this time Yuuri better get it right.

Because this is not forgiveness, nor is it a second chance, but rather it’s a demand for him to make things right, and Yuuri is a fool but he is not stupid and he knows he would give his lifespan to satisfy the man before him.

This is not a new beginning, but rather a broken plate, glued together, cracks still visible, fragile, but still usable. Nothing promised but possibilities endless, and this time Yuuri will make things right, not for himself, but only for Victor.

**Author's Note:**

> This was not what I set out to write, but oh well. This is why its a challenge I guess.  
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
